


Word of Mouth

by dogtit



Category: Ever After High
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 19:43:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6920452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogtit/pseuds/dogtit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story that isn't really a story. Various little prompt driven fics from Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh my God. You're in love with her. [raven/apple]

**Author's Note:**

> the prompt is that every number is followed by a different piece of dialogue! i didn't wanna spam the tag too much so [mario voice] here we go

“Oh my _Grimm_ , you’re in love with her.” 

It takes Apple a moment to register the dry response to her _honestly innocent_  question. A question she hasn’t even directed to Briar in the first place. A question she has chosen to ask in the privacy of her dorm room–

“ _Briar?_ ” Apple turns, looking to her window. Briar climbs in a minute later, wearing a helmet and climbing gear, all in bright pink, all bedazzled, overall obnoxious. “What are you even–how did you–”

“No deets, and no need to explain yourself, I heard everything,” Briar says, taking off her helmet and tossing her hair. “You’re in love with her. Raven, I mean.” 

Apple likes to think that she handles that incorrect observation with grace; spluttering and waving her arms in limp circles is graceful in every situation, clearly. 

“Oh, don’t even,” Briar says, a hand held up in warning. “When you go around asking your magic mirror,” her voice rises in mockery of Apple’s voice, “ _Mirror, mirror, on the wall? Why does my heart quiver so when I see Raven in the halls?’_  It’s, like, _duh, girl!_  You’re in love!”

“That is–ridiculous,” Apple says, sharply, “and totally incorrect! I don’t even get–why would–I’ve never been in love with anyone, ever.” 

Briar arches a brow. “If you think relying on your encyclopedic knowledge of Parks and Hexreation will save you from facing this, Apple, you are wrong.”

“I’m not in love with Raven!” Apple covers her warming cheeks. “I’m not!” 

“You are,” the Evil Queen says from behind her, her voice catching and echoing through the glass of the mirror. When Apple spins around to gape at the wicked woman lounging in a plush recliner within the confines of her mirror, the Evil Queen gives her a little wave. “Good afternoon, Applecheeks. You know, I’m actually relieved that it’s you and not that skittery little Charming boy. He’s just a little _too_  nice. You, though, have a Red Delicious streak of evil in you. I approve.”

“Not enough reason to use the adjective delicious,” Briar says.

“Oh man, is that EQ,” Faybelle asks as she ducks her head in, hanging upside down from the window. “Charm my wings off, it is! Ha! Karma’s a witch, ain’t it?!  _Suck it!”_

 _“What is she doing here?_ ” Apple points to the dark fairy hanging from her window.

“I needed a spotter,” Briar says, shrugging. “She can fly, plus, she’s like, cheerhexing shredded, or something. She could lift me and Raven into the air like twice over.” 

“ _Raven’s here?!”_

Raven shyly peeks her head over the sill, waving shyly. The shadows of her helmet hide the light in her eyes, but not the delicate blush of her cheeks. With her fair skin, Apple is forced to admit that her roommate is utterly _adorable_. 

“This was Briar’s idea?” Raven winces. “Apple, listen, I just want to talk about–about us, maybe, if you’re in love with me then I’m–”

“We’re not having this conversation with your mother and Faybelle in the room!” Apple grabs her purse. “Bye!” 

“Appl–”

“ _Bye!!!”_

Apple runs. Faybelle, Briar, and the Evil Queen share the same sigh. 

“We’ll get her next time, Rae,” Briar soothes, patting Raven on the shoulder as the witch climbs into her room. “If we have to chase her down and we gotta Kiss The Girl it, then we _will_. So help me Grimm, Apple White, _you are gonna get a girlfriend if it’s the last thing I do!”_


	2. Meet me at midnight. Alone. [cerise/kitty]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for someone who hates water kitty sure is thirsty

The note sits at the bottom of her locker when she opens it up. A shudder rolls down her spine, creeps its way back up to rattle in her chest until it escapes her throat as a low, pleased purr. 

Cerise is always so blunt.  _Meet me at midnight. Alone._

She knows where to meet Cerise, perhaps out of habit, maybe out of instinct. There’s a little clearing in the Enchanted Forest, where the grass smells sweet and the night dew is bearable, and the fireflies dance at the barest urging of the wind, and where the moonlight shines uninhibited at the apex of the night. They have most of their dates there, among other things. 

Kitty’s a little surprised; it’s not even the full moon, yet. But she isn’t one to look a present horse in the gifting past for a maddening future. She vanishes from the halls with a wicked giggle and a smile. 

She skips all of her classes to catch up on the sleep she’s sure to miss come tonight. When the sun sinks below the horizon and Maddie’s bubbling snores rouse her from her catnap, Kitty slinks into a red nightgown she stole from Lizzie and grabs a silky robe. The nightgown itself doesn’t fit right; it’s tight around the chest and barely hides her legs, which is honestly the idea. 

Shaking out her hair, Kitty winks out of her room and sparkles into form at the edge of the clearing. A red and white checkered blanket with a large basket, steaming with fresh food–baked ham, salmon, honey’d rolls, and more–sits on the edge and Cerise sits in the center, fidgeting. Her cute little ears are free, tonight, flicking back and forth. 

Kitty starts to regret her choice in wardrobe; she wasn’t expecting a picnic to go with seduction, but maybe she can work with it. Cerise’s nose twitches; Kitty moves behind her with a giggle and wraps her arms around her neck, nuzzling close. Casually, she runs her cheek against Cerise’s neck– _mine_ –and kisses the back of her ear. 

Cerise gasps, going rigid; Kitty grins. “Hello, Cerise,” she purrs. “I’m all alone, like you _insisted_ …I didn’t think we were gonna have a picnic.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “My, what _big teeth_ you have…and what a bigger appetite, from the smell of that basket. Gonna get greedy, between all that, and all of _me_ …” 

“ _Hhh_ ,” Cerise says at first, which goes according to her plan. Kitty loves unpredictable chaos, but the predictable chaos she can make of her girlfriend’s mind is her favorite. “Wait, wait no–Kitty, hold on. This isn’t what you think it is.” 

“It’s not?” Kitty pouts, then slinks around to sit in Cerise’s lap, then undoes the sash of her robe. A shrug of her shoulders has it spilling off of her body, revealing pale skin and crimson lace. “And I wore your colors and everything.” 

“ _Hhhhhh_ ,” Cerise says, louder. Her eyes go gold and Kitty smirks and starts to tally it as a victory until she shakes her head. “No! Kitty, I’m serious, we really  _can’t_ –”

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” Kitty admits, though it’s more a half truth. She’s been sleeping most of the day and she’s been dreaming about huge balls of yarn that, when unrolled, stretch from Wonderland to the Emerald City. True bliss. “Now, c’mere…” 

Cerise opens her mouth to say another protest, but Kitty kisses it away. About fifteen minutes later Kitty hears someone clear their throat. Which is really awkward, because she has her hand up half up Cerise’s shirt, and Cerise’s hands are all the way up her nightgown. 

Kitty looks up. Red Riding Hood smiles down at her with the patient understanding of one who has seen many, many things. Professor Badwolf and Ramona Badwolf are just behind her, backs turned. Ramona has her head in her hands. Professor Badwolf’s ears are pinned back. 

“Hello!” Red Riding Hood waves cheerfully. “You must be Kitty, Cerise has told me all about you. I was really excited to meet you, but, hm, maybe I should come at another time?” She gives Kitty a mischief maker’s wink. “I don’t blame you, I was the same with her father. Something about this spot…”

Kitty inhales. Exhales. Professor Badwolf says, “You won’t say anything about this, I won’t say anything about this, let’s just live our lives.” 

Ramona growls. “This. Is the sixth. Time. In as many months. Cerise, I swear to _Grimm_.” 

“Welcome to the family,” Red Riding Hood says. Kitty responds by vanishing, listening to the Hood’s laughter fading into the wind.


	3. You know, it's okay to cry. [cerise/kitty]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> headcanon: wonderland will recall its key players when it comes time for their story, save for alistair, who will remain behind and have to fall back in the rabbit hole all over again. also headcanon that kitty could probably kill macbeth

Kitty doesn’t like to think about graduation. 

Since Wonderland’s curse has been lifted, and connections to it have been restored, she has become aware of a hidden timer; a sort of tether to her homeworld that she can’t ignore. Kitty is a being of magic; she doesn’t have a father. Her mother spun her out of yarn and breathed madness into her form, a laborious effort that took two months and yielded a splendid child.

And because she is more magic than the others–even Bunny–she can _feel_  it. A chain around her ankle, an unseen force that grows stronger and gets tighter the closer the day of graduation approaches. Her final year at Ever After High isn’t the best. Well, it is–she has Cerise and her friends, and soon she’ll have Wonderland–but she’ll have to _leave_  one of those things all alone and on the other side until Alistair finishes his role in the story. 

And who knows how long that will take! 

He can’t simply go through the Well of Wonder; he _must_  find a rabbit hole that Bunny will make and he has to follow her, and he must journey far and wide across Wonderland and this, _this, and that_ , and it makes far too much sense for Kitty to be comfortable with. Because then it makes sense that she has to leave Cerise, she has no choice. The magic will spirit her away; it will spirit Lizzie, and Maddie, Courtly, and Bunny away, too. Alistair will be left in Ever After. 

Cerise will be too. Kitty has never–she can’t say _hate_  because she would never hate her destiny, her story–she has never been so _unsatisfied_  with it before. She wonders if this is what Duchess Swan feels like all the time, and if it is, Grimm, now she _gets it._

Cerise sits next to her; Kitty continues to stare at the park bench and her knees. 

“You’re sad,” Cerise says, her raspy voice edged with tenderness. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” Kitty sniffs and swallows down a sob. “I’m going to have to leave, you know.” 

Cerise’s arm comes across her shoulders. In a heavy breath, she admits, “I know. I, um, overheard Lizzie telling Daring that at Bookball practice. I think that’s what finally made him give up on trying to woo her.” 

“We won’t have a choice,” Kitty says, sharply. “It’s old magic. I can feel it. We’re going to…w-we’re…”

Her eyes hurt. Her nose keeps tingling something awful. Cerise drags her closer, wrapping her up in the fabric of her cloak until her face is pressed against the warm skin of her neck, practically hidden. 

“You know, it’s okay to cry,” Cerise tells her. “I’m right here.” 

She _whines_ , burrows closer. The release of the building pressure in her eyes doesn’t make her feel better, really. ‘I’m right here’, Cerise tells her, over and over.

 _But I won’t be_ , Kitty thinks, and digs her claws in deep.  


	4. You came back! [raven/apple]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sequel to chapter 1 !!

It was, perhaps, not the best thing to try and force Apple to confront something she doesn’t want to. Raven doesn’t know why she allowed Briar to talk her into it. 

 _Mirror, mirror, on the wall_ …

She covers her face, flustered. Apple can be quite poetic, which makes her think about the two of them exchanging poetry, which is so romantic that she can’t help but be aware of the hypocrisy of it all. Usually she would gag at the notion. But in regards to Apple, she…

The door opens. Raven jumps a little as Apple tiptoes in, cautiously looking back and forth. She freezes when she sees Raven, and Raven hunches her shoulders. 

“You…” Her eyes water. “You came back!”

“Of course I did,” Apple says. “This is my room too, you know.” 

Raven isn’t so far into her own head that she misses the gentle rib, and it makes her relax by degrees. Regardless of any feelings, Apple is always going to be her friend. It’s really all Raven needs. 

“Are we alone?” Apple glances to the mirror. When the surface shimmers purple, she reels back.

“Privacy spell,” Raven says. “I put one on all the mirrors here. Mom can’t spy.” 

“Oh, good.” Apple looks to the window. “And, Briar is…” 

“Out looking for you, actually.” Raven gets up to peek outside, just in case, and confirms that there is no snooping Beauty. She decides to close it, and pull the blinds just for good measure. “So, um, about–about earlier, I–”

Apple holds up a hand. Raven presses her lips together. 

“I’ve been…thinking about, well, earlier. Quite a bit.” She plays with a curl of gold, eyes on the floor. She takes a deep breath, as if for courage, and whispers, “If they were right, what…how would you feel, I mean, I would never in my _life_ expect reciprocation, or, or to make you feel uncomfortable, or.”

Raven clenches her fist to hide the purple spark of flame that ignites under her skin. “So you do. Love me, I mean.”

Apple nods, very slightly. “How’s _that_  for going off script,” she murmurs, trying to break the tension settling in the air. “I guess I really am a Rebel now. As if what happened with your mother wasn’t enough of an indication!”

Raven stands up. Apple keeps rambling.

“I’ll ask Headmaster Grimm for a room transfer, if that would make you feel better? I really, really don’t know what to do here, and I don’t think it’s inappropriate because love is–well, I mean, maybe it might be, but it isn’t! And! Raven, why are you holding my fa–”

Raven gives her a kiss, because the moment is cliche enough to deserve a ‘shut up’ kind of kiss. 


	5. You're too good for me. [duchess/poppy]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> duchess swan is a terrible human being but somehow we love her anyway (or, yknow, we tolerate her.)

Poppy is so wonderfully oblivious. 

She isn’t as popular as a Charming, or Raven, or Apple. There aren’t beauties and princes going out of there way to ask for her hand, or for a date. 

But, Grimm, there are so many _normal_  people fluttering around her like flies. Poppy doesn’t notice; she spends time with them, working on their hair, laughing and ribbing around with perfect strangers. She’s malleable, easy to get along with, and firm in what she believes. Of course there are people attracted to her; Duchess is one of them. 

The difference is that Poppy only really _looks_  at her and her alone. A hundred people could ask for her attentions, and they’d get vague shrugging at a promise of a maybe. If Duchess asks, Poppy will have already pulled up three different events where she’s been invited and offered a ‘plus one’ with Duchess’s name on them. 

It’s. Thrilling, really. To be someone’s priority. Duchess has never really been first in anyone’s mind; it’s always been her performance, her grades, her ability, her future. Poppy sees all that she does and all that she is, and respects it, but then she goes even _deeper_  and holds her hand for it. There is nothing quite as humbling.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t make her _seethe_  with jealousy seeing a dime a dozen fairytale hanging around Poppy. She is a jealous person by nature, and she does her very best to keep it from affecting the relationship she has with Poppy to a minimum. 

She trusts Poppy. She _does_. 

“So,” a tall girl says, stretching close to Poppy’s side at the lockers. Duchess presses her back against the pillar and watches from the shadows. 

Poppy blinks up at the girl. “Uh? Hey?”

She trusts Poppy. She does. She _really really does_. She doesn’t need to see Poppy turn someone down, because Poppy turns down at least two a week and is very honest with her about it. She doesn’t need to see this–but she _does_ , because she _needs_ the proof, the validation. 

 _I am a terrible person_ , Duchess thinks, and continues to spy. 

“You never texted me back? Y’know. ‘Bout lunch.” The girl grins rakishly, flipping red tipped bangs aside. 

“That’s because I don’t want to go to lunch with you.” Poppy shuts her locker hard. A few people stop to stare. “I thought I made that pretty clear, to be honest.”

“Yeah, but _why not?_  C’mon. My treat. Anywhere you want, gorgeous. I’ll treat you like a princess.” 

Duchess’s stomach turns with disgust and she rolls her eyes. Poppy nearly gags. 

“Yeah, no. You want a date. _I_  am currently dating and am not interested in going anywhere with you.” She checks her Mirrorphone. “Speaking of _my awesome girlfriend_ , I’ve got to go and meet up with _her_  for _lunch_.“ 

Poppy turns on her heel. The girl sputters, drags a hand through black hair, and snaps, “What’s so great about _that_  jerk, anyway!?” 

Poppy stops. The girl can’t see her expression, but Duchess can. Her mouth flattens into a thin line and her nostrils flare. 

“Everybody _knows_  she’s just gonna become some–stupid water bird thing, anyway. Why go after someone with _that_  kinda future?! You should be with someone like you!” 

Duchess already knows what words are going to pass through the admirer’s lips before she speaks them, and is already three kinds of furious.

“You don’t even _have_  a destiny! You can do whatever you want!” 

Poppy’s face goes blank. She turns back to the girl, and she must have some kind of smile on, because the black haired girl just grins like she’s won something. What an idiot, Duchess thinks unkindly. 

“You know what? You’re absolutely right! I can do whatever I want,” Poppy says with so much false sweetness that Duchess chokes. “And what I _want_ , is to go to _lunch_  with my _girlfriend_. Guess who that is? Duchess! Swan! And definitely not you.”

Poppy makes like she’s about to turn, then whirls around and _slaps_  the girl so hard she collapses against the lockers.

“And if you _ever_ talk about my girl like that again, I’ll rip out your extensions and _choke you with them_ ” Poppy vows with menace. “Consider your appointment _canceled_. I wouldn’t go _near_ your fried out mop even if they offered me all the gold in Ever After. _Later_.” 

Poppy stomps off, red faced and shaking. Duchess smoothly steps behind the pillar and follows her, uncaring of who watches her give chase. She doesn’t need to crow or tout her victory along; it stopped being a victory when Poppy got hurt in the crossfire. Her long legs eat up the distance and soon she has Poppy’s shoulder in her hand. 

“Don’t swing,” Duchess says quickly when Poppy goes tense, recognizing the jump in her muscles. “It’s me, darling.” 

“Darling?” Poppy croaks it, slowly turning around. “Wow, you sure got tall.”

“Oh my Grimm.” She’ll swat her for the pun later, Duchess decides, and draws Poppy into a hug. “I saw everything.” 

“Saw–oh. My slugging of a customer in the face, right?” Poppy’s voice is muffled against her bare shoulder. “Guess I kind of lost some of my appeal there, huh?”

“Are you joking? That was the most attractive thing I’ve seen you do.” Duchess pauses, then ammends with, “Outside of Dragon Game matches. Poppy, what that girl said–”

“You _heard_  it all too? Then you heard what she said about y–oh, I’m gonna tear out her darn _roots–_ ” 

“I’m trying to comfort you here, idiot,” Duchess hisses, her heart bleeding. “Shut up and stop being so heroic. So what if you have no story?” She presses a kiss against Poppy’s brow. “I think you’re perfect as you are. You could choose anyone to be with, any story to fit into, and you chose me. You chose mine.”

“Duchess,” Poppy murmurs, stunned. 

“You’re too good for me,” Duchess admits in a whisper, not trusting her voice to remain level. “But that’s too bad for you. I’m not letting you go.”

“You’d,” Poppy sniffs, and hugs her tight. “You’d better not, feather brain.”

Duchess will let that slide for now. “You said something about lunch, didn’t you? Let’s go. And Spellchat it to Blondie.” 

“So that girl sees and gets jealous and mad about it?”

“Duh.”


	6. Don't say that. Not now. [duchess/poppy]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning in this chapter for slight violence. nobody dies but somebody gets a really big booboo and nobody has fun. this is also way longer than any of the others because it was my otp and i just sorta RAN WITH IT

Poppy and Darling are the only two girls in Hero Training, and obviously, are in the top three. Darling is at the top of the class, with her brother Daring in second, and Poppy bringing up the third spot; and Poppy is more than content with that. She’s been handling scissors and much smaller blades all her life; compared to Darling and Daring, she’s in a totally different league. A worse one. 

But at least she’s better than everyone _else_  in the class, which is a little bit of an ego boost. Poppy may not have a destiny or a place in a story, but that is not a limitation. She’s stronger than fate and also a bunch of stupid boys who think that because she likes pink and skirts that they can underestimate her. 

Haven’t they seen an episode of Snicker Snack Kitchen? Never underestimate the female chefs. 

Today they line up at ease in front of the Damsel in Distressing class. She sneaks a little wave at Holly as Professor Knight begins to address them. 

“As you know, any good hero–be they prince, knight, woodsman, or,” he drifts off, looking between Darling and Poppy, “a princess, must always be on the lookout for damsels in need of assistance. This could be as trifle as, perhaps, helping them across a muddy puddle or by fending off a villainous cur!” 

Armor clanking, he faces his class. “You will be addressing the latter scenario. You will each attend to one princess and fight for her honor; someone else will be your _villain._  Failure to defeat your villain will net you a FF.” 

“This is hocus _bogus_ ,” Sparrow Hood complains.

“Ah, our first volunteer.” Professor Knight waves Sparrow forward. “Pick your sword and let your princess select you.” 

Sparrow picks a short sword and whines the whole time. He cajoles Holly and she halfheartedly picks him out of the goodness of her heart. Poppy sends Sparrow a very bright smile and mouths, _You’re dead._  while Professor Knight’s back is turned. 

“You know what,” Sparrow stammers, “I’ll just take the failing grade. Can I go home.”

“Mr. Hood, you haven’t even–”

Sparrow points at Poppy, who whistles and rocks back and forth on her heels. “What?” She bats her lashes. “It’s his grade.”

He sighs and Holly giggles while Sparrow tromps over to sulk. Hopper is next, and he nervously moves in front of a disinterested Briar. He manages to get two words out before he becomes a frog, and is disqualified with a quiet _blast!_  Alistair takes over, and Briar accepts. Dexter is called upon as the villain: the fight is flashy, but quick enough. Alistair walks away with the passing grade, and Briar gets a really comfy nap. 

Poppy tries not to bounce on her toes for her turn. Hunter, obviously, goes to Ashlynn; Alistair becomes the villain this time, and Hunter passes. Not with flying colors, but Poppy notices a definite improvement. Maybe it’s all about the proper motivation. 

Darling volunteers next, and quite obviously moves to Apple. “Princess,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss against her knuckles, “how may this humble knight be of service to the Fairest of them all?” 

Raven has to steady her roommate with a laugh; Apple’s so red she looks close to swooning, and she won’t stop giggling. “Easy there, Apple! Come on! You’re okay!” 

Darling goes for extra credit, though, by taking _Raven’s_  hand as well, and kisses over the pulse in her wrist. “Ah, but perhaps I could be a loyal woodsman on the hunt for my Queen…?”

The wooden dragon puppet bursts into purple flame, only to come out a blackened caricature of itself, with lots of spikes, and glowing red lights in the eyes, and a fog machine in its throat. Raven coughs. Professor Maid Marian claps her hands with delight. 

“Such skill! Very well, Darling. You shall fight for the honor of _two_  princesses. One is your charge by destiny, after all,” Professor Knight allows. “Poppy O’Hair, shall you take your villainous blade?” 

Poppy nearly bursts out of her skin. “ _Hex yeah!_  I, I mean, yes sir. Of course, sir.” The princesses giggle–save for a sleeping Briar and a bored, morose looking Duchess Swan. 

Her eyes linger. Poppy can’t help it. Something deep inside of her cries out at the sight, begs her to fix it somehow, a instinct and a pull that might be a destiny–if she knew what that felt like. Poppy shakes herself out of it before Duchess notices and hurries to the sword rack, hesitating before picking out a good sized blade. It hums in her hands, and the grip black leather and the cross guard forged and colored like white swans. 

That instinct nags her again. When Poppy holds it, it feels like an extension of her arm, so she figures that this is _her_  sword. She’ll ask if she can put it in reserve for future classes later. 

Poppy bows her head. Darling bows back, and after a moment, they clash. Fighting Darling is like fighting the wind; she’s faster than lightning and each scrape of steel against steel rasps against her ears like a hawk’s cry. Her blood has never run faster, or boiled so hotter, till she feels a razor sharp point against her neck. 

The classes erupt with clapping. Poppy grins, despite her loss, and Darling mirrors it as she lowers her blade. “Poppy, you were excellent! Have you been practicing?” 

“A little,” Poppy admits, then holds up her chosen weapon. “I think this helped, though…I dunno, Darling, I think I found _the one._ ” 

Darling looks at the cross guard, then at Poppy, and has the audacity to wink. Poppy goes red and she shuffles off. Daring is next, and he moves toward–

He moves toward Duchess. Something in Poppy’s chest twists in acute, sharp pain, and she can’t really explain why. Maybe because she knows Duchess would say yes in a heartbeat. The tall ballerina is already looking at the approaching Charming with the first signs of emotion she’s shown all day, bright eyed and hands clasped and–Poppy realizes she’s gripping her sword too tightly, and sheathes it quickly, a little shaken. She hadn’t been thinking about doing something _reckless_ , by any means. It’s just the thrill of the fight still working in her system. 

Yeah. Okay.

But Daring doesn’t try to woo Duchess; he passes over her entirely, like she’s utterly invisible. Instead, he moves to Lizzie, who makes a face when he gets close. Poppy doesn’t pay attention to the conversation; she looks at the crumbling expression cracking against Duchess’s face, until she stuffs it all away. Then Duchess looks at her. Their eyes catch, hazel against green. Poppy looks down, embarrassed; she peeks through the fringe of her bangs, and Duchess doesn’t look angry so much as…curious. 

Which is better than she expected!

“–and if you ask me one more time, Charming, it will be _off with your head!_ “

Daring holds his hands up. “Alright, alright! No need to be so violent, m’lady.” 

The girls, even Duchess, all share a silent and collective dry heave.

“Rosabella Beauty, would you do me the supreme honor, of being my princess for the day?” Daring goes all out. Batting his eyes. Clicking his teeth, even finger gunning it. Rosabella accepts not with a swoon but with a, “fine, please stop doing that, the glare is _killing me._ ”

Darling is called to be his villainess. Their fight lasts a touch longer than any of the others so far; Daring might be as flouncy as his hair, but with a sword, he is nearly a master. Nearly. Darling has the point of her blade tucked against his ribs in five minutes, eyes sparkling. Daring accepts the loss with more grace than Poppy expected him too, and he pulls Darling into a tight hug. 

“I am so proud of you, little sister!” Daring chucks her under the chin, then winces. He holds up his finger, where a thin slice in the skin has brought on blood. “Oh, dear. Dex, don’t look over–”

A thump, as Dexter passes out from the sight. Sparrow takes off his vest and tucks it under his head with a sigh. “Yeah, it happens a lot,” he says to the astounded crowd of princesses. “Don’t worry about it,” he adds as Alistair lays his jacket over Dexter with a sheepish smile. 

“Well.” Professor Knight clears his throat. “Ms. O’Hair, if you please?”

Poppy takes a deep breath and looks to Duchess on instinct. She raises her brows as if to ask _me?_  without words, and Poppy approaches her with a false confidence. 

“…I’m not great with flowery words,” Poppy admits once she’s close enough, looking up at Duchess with what she hopes is not a ridiculous looking grin. “So, may I fight in your name?” 

“You…” Duchess blinks, slowly. “You really _want_  to? Lizzie’s right over there.”

“I, I know,” Poppy stammers. “But, I’d like to fight for you. If that’s alright?” 

She’s about to call it quits and slink to Lizzie–who regards her with pity and a smile, at least–when Duchess says, softly, “Alright. On one condition; you don’t lose.” There’s something strange in her voice, there. “You can’t lose. If you’re parading around as my prince, you _cannot lose here_.” 

There’s a deeper meaning to that that flies over Poppy’s head; she looks to Holly and Holly opens her mouth, probably to ask her to switch, when Professor Knight announces, “Mr. Charming! Care to take on the mantle of a villain?” 

Daring takes his place across from her, nonchalantly smiling. “May the best hero win,” he says, silkily. Poppy draws her sword, and bows at the waist. 

Daring thrusts; she parries. He swings from the side; she deflects with a twist of the wrist. His strikes _should_  make her bones ache to the marrow, but strangely it feels like they do nothing to her at all. If it weren’t for the half confused, half impressed expression on Daring’s face–like he isn’t expecting her to do so well, and is proud of her growth--she'd think he was going easy on her.

But it feels wrong. Her sword won’t stop humming. 

Then she feels it _jerk_ , aiming for his head; Poppy yelps with horror and pulls back, but the tip grazes across his cheek deep enough to spill blood, the force sending his head snapping tot he side. It hisses and bubbles against the surface of her blade, and Poppy gapes at it. 

“Daring, I’m so sorry, I didn’t–” 

Daring slowly looks to her. His blue eyes are darkened to a sick purple, a color Poppy has never seen before. Which is bad, because it means that Raven has no hand in this. 

“Ah, prince,” Daring says, his voice not his own, “so we meet again.” 

“You’re…really getting into this–” Daring lunges with an overhead drop, and Poppy raises the blade just in time to catch it. “– _Whoa!_ ” 

His grin doesn’t shine, or sparkle. There’s nothing of _Daring_  behind his own face, and Poppy feels sick to her stomach. 

“Do you really think your love is enough to break my curse?! Your simpleton’s love, against the great _Rothbart’s_  magic?!” Daring laughs. “What a fool! Soon she will remain a swan _forever–”_ He turns the blade  on its side, and knocks Poppy’s out of the way, “and you will _never have her!_ ” 

Time slows. Poppy knows that she can bring her sword forward enough to turn Daring’s thrust off course. She knows she can. She’s right in the middle of it. The sword, however, refuses to budge, seemingly frozen to the side.

When Daring’s sword slides home, there isn’t any pain. Just the cold and feign sensation of _something_  inside of her. Poppy gasps; her limp fingers slide off of her sword, but the weapon itself remains suspended in midair.

Holly screaming. A lot of people screaming, actually. 

“ _Daring,”_ Darling roars, running for them. “What are you doing–Daring, _what are you doing?!_ ” 

He twists it. The pain comes swiftly, now, wrenching inside of her like a live wire. Poppy grabs at his wrist, staring blankly at his malicious face. A curse, she realizes a little too late. _Sword was cursed. Passed it to him when it cut him. It was always meant to kill its bearer._

The last thing he should do is take the sword out–it hurts like nothing she’s ever felt before, but at least its keeping her blood in. So, of course, the curse forces him to pull the blade free. Poppy falls on her front, grasping her stomach; Darling tackles Daring a moment later, shouting. Poppy hears a clatter as the cursed sword snaps in half and falls to the ground beside her. 

Daring groans. “What–what happened to me–what–Oh, o-oh my Grimm, _Poppy_ –” 

The professors are already calling for emergency help. Raven vanishes them in a flash of purple smoke– “ _I can’t take Poppy, the magic might, might–” –_ and then Holly is sliding to her side, turning her over. Duchess collapses by her face, her expression one of sheer _horror_. 

And guilt. So much guilt. 

“Stay with me–” Holly begs, her hands covering Poppy’s. “You _stay_  with me, by Grimm! You aren’t a-allowed to le-leave me! P-Poppy, _please_ –” 

Poppy holds her hand, slick and wet with blood–she doesn’t want to look–

_Oh Grimm, am I going to die?_

Duchess’s hands cover her stomach, too. Neither of them can look away. 

“You–” Poppy chokes, raising a free hand to touch Duchess’s arm. It leaves streaks of red. “You have _beautiful_ eyes.”

“Are you kidding me?!” Duchess snarls, half to tears. “Shut up! Shut up, shut up–w-why aren’t you _crying_ , or being _normal_ –”

Darling, far off. “– _going into shock_ –” 

“I have a huge crush on you,” Poppy says, the edges of her vision going a little blurry. Raven’s magic crashes against the ground like lightning, thunder rolling around in the air. 

Duchess weeps, “Don’t say that. Not now.”

“Might not get another chance.” A staff of nurses, and Baba Yaga surround her. Holly doesn’t let go of her hand. Duchess’s eyes are the last thing she sees before the ringing noise in her head gets to her and she passes out.

When Poppy opens her eyes again, she sees nothing but white. Holly is fast asleep and splayed across her lap, still holding onto her hand. Her hair is a mess, circling the bed twice and ending in half a loop by her feet. So, about two–four days, maximum. Her own hair probably isn’t doing much better; she can feel it tickling the backs of her ankles. 

She thinks about waking Holly up. Then the door opens, and she sees a flash of black and white, and shuts her eyes as Holly jerks awake anyway. 

“Duchess…?” Holly’s sleepy murmur is rough, foggy.

“I…I’m sorry. You were sleeping with her. I’ll go–” 

“No! No, no, stay. I’ve hogged her enough.” Holly squeezes her hand. “Her friends should get to see her a little before Mom and Dad come to pick her up…”

“You’re family,” Duchess replies. “I should–”

“You might be the one to wake her up, you know?” Poppy feels a stroke of fingers against her brow. “Well, lucidly, at least. They’re starting to ease off the painkillers now that everything is…patched up, and…” 

Holly shifts away.

“Stay with her,” she orders. “I really need to…to be alone, for a little. Is that o-okay?” 

“You don’t have to ask me permission,” Duchess says back, but gently. “Take some time for yourself. I’ll…I’ll watch her.” 

“Thank you.” The sounds of Holly gathering her hair. “And, Duchess? It’s not your fault.” 

Duchess lets out a hiss of breath through her teeth. 

“It really isn’t. The…the sorcerer was the one who went off script,” Holly whispers. “I’ve read your story over and over, every version I could find. He never puts a possession curse into place, ever.”

Duchess is silent. Holly whispers a goodbye and leaves. Poppy listens to Duchess moving around, pacing, before she settles into the chair Holly had been in before. Poppy only opens her eyes when she hears the first sniffle, staring at the top of Duchess’s head.

She creeps her hand to the side, cursing her heavy limbs, and tries to rest it on Duchess’s head. She ends up smacking her forehead instead, which upsets the needles in the back of her hand, and makes her hiss with pain; Duchess snaps a curse and reels back in her chair, eyes misty and wide. 

“You’re. Awake.” Duchess trembles. “I’ll get the doct–”

Poppy tries to talk, and it ends up failing. Shaking her head makes her dizzy, but she does it anyway. _Water?_  she mouths and Duchess reaches to the side tray and takes a glass of lukewarm water with a straw in it and everything. 

“Small sips,” Duchess orders. “Small.”

Poppy takes one small sip, to wet her mouth, then another just to feel the relief of having something cool and lifesaving flow in the natural way. “Not your fault,” is what she says at first, her voice breaking like glass on gravel. “Curse guy. Was a. Huge di–”

“Were you pretending to be asleep,” Duchess asks wearily. Poppy tries for an innocent whistle, but it putters out halfway through. “Is this because of the crush thing.”

“Nuh,” Poppy says, because her mouth is dry again. Duchess gracefully lets her take another sip. “No,” Poppy manages. “Just wanted to…check on you, too.”

Duchess sets the water aside. Takes her hand. The moment their skin makes prolonged, extended contact there’s a shock racing up her spine, to her sore stomach and straight into her heart. Duchess takes a sharp breath, feeling it too. 

Connection. Belonging. They stare at each other. 

 _Destiny_.

“You’re not allowed to lose anymore,” Duchess says, sharply. Her voice trembles. “If you have the–the gall. The audacity. To put yourself into _my_  story, then you are _not_  going to just–just– _die like that._  Do you hear me, Poppy O’Hair?” 

Poppy nods, trying not to laugh, and failing. 


	7. Is there something you want to tell me? [briar/faybelle]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey, remember in farrah's diary where it was like "haha fairies if you dont follow your destiny in some way you're fuckin' dead?" cause man, i sure do.

“When did you become such a sap,” Faybelle asks herself in the mirror. 

She’s lost weight. Her eyes have shadows under their shadows. Worst of all, perhaps, is that her wings are limp and dull. No more flying for her. No more flying and very little magic; enough for a glamour, maybe, to hide all this rotten mess, but nothing like she used to do. 

Guess that’s what I get for falling in love, she thinks with disdain, glaring hard at the silvery surface of her vanity. She dares the Evil Queen to show up–maybe she _prays_ –because sure enough she’d shatter the mirror in an instant if the Evil Queen’s face replaced her own and whispered promises for a happy ever after. 

“Stars, I’ve become Apple White.” Faybelle hisses. She gathers up a crackle of magic in her palms, adds a pinch of fairy dust, and casts her glamour. The old her, the old Faybelle Thorn, replaces the drained and heaping wreck she’s become. 

She’ll still have to walk–the glamour doesn’t extend to allowing her flight–but that’s fine. She won’t have much longer to worry about it, after all. 

Man, this sucks. Farrah tried to warn her. _Fairies can’t go Rebel, Faybelle. We’re magic. We need to follow our stories, or we…or we…_

But, you know? Whatever. Faybelle isn’t going to hide from her incoming  _poof_ ing because she got to make Briar smile, and unfortunately for her, Briar Beauty takes up a lot of space in her fairy heart. Sucks to suck, she guesses. 

She meets Briar for coffee. Then takes her to a movie. Her bones ache under her glamour and it must flicker for a second, because Briar adopts a very serious expression, and she touches Faybelle’s arm. The glamour makes her skin warm, but Faybelle knows she’s ice cold to the touch otherwise; why else would Briar’s hand feel like fire against her? 

“Fay?” Briar leans close. “Faybelle, are you alright? For a second I thought I saw…”

Faybelle kisses the corner of her mouth, smirking like she should, canting her head to the side with false confidence. “Never better, Beauty. Eyes on the screen now, or else I might be tempted to get frisky.” 

Briar slaps her shoulder with a laugh, her fears turned aside and soothed; Faybelle tries not to scream at the lightning bolt of pain that wracks through her weakening body. 

They get lunch after that, though Faybelle mostly pushes it around on her plate. It’s not that she hates the food–sweet fruits and juicy berries from the Enchanted Forest–she just has no appetite. 

She flicks her grapes at Briar, laughing. Her bones ache and her wings are lead against her back. The decline has been sharp and dramatic, and Faybelle knows why. 

Briar’s birthday is today. She either gets cursed, or she doesn’t. Faybelle should curse her, no matter what her stupid newfound conscious says, but the thought of losing Briar’s laugh, her smile, for a hundred years feels more like death than the actual death chasing her heels. 

Sappy. But Faybelle can’t lose her, not even to her own magic. Besides, she can’t even think of the words of the curse. Her mother said that the words would just come naturally, like fate. Guess that just about says everything, right? 

They walk the town until evening, and stroll through the gardens to wander back to their rooms, when Faybelle feels it. The clock, ticking. She jerks to a halt, doubling over with a soft breath. Her body feels like it’s just one step away from jerking apart at the seams, the magic that makes her up rebelling. 

“Fay!” Briar takes her hands, her eyes wide. “I _knew_  you weren’t feeling well! Godmother, why didn’t you say anything earlier? Faybelle?” She scowls, voice hardening. “Is there something you want to tell me?“  

Faybelle feels the glamour crack and fall apart. Briar’s horrified shout is just the nail in her coffin. 

“Hey, stop screaming.” Faybelle straightens herself up with a lot of effort. “I look…just about as bad as I feel, actually. Uh, oops.” 

“What–what’s happening?!” Briar’s shaking hand cups her cheeks, and Faybelle feels it like a scrape. Something snaps, a twig breaking maybe, and suddenly the leaden weight of her wings ease. Briar’s face goes slack. 

“Your…” Her voice shakes. “F-Fayb-belle, your, your wings…” 

Faybelle looks over her shoulder. She’s really not okay with seeing her wings detached and crumpling on the ground like dying leaves. They collapse in to fairy dust soon after, which. Haha, wow. She’s really dying. 

“That’s not good,” Faybelle says, looking at Briar. “Oh don’t cry. Oh no, please don’t cry. I literally do not have the energy for that right now.”

“Doctor,” Briar stammers, grabbing Faybelle’s wrists. “We have to get you to a doctor, right, right now, help, _help_ , Baba Yaga, someone–anyone, I–”

Faybelle touches her cheek. Runs a thumb over her bottom lip and leaves a smear of glittering dust behind. “I do have something to say. And I think I have to say it pretty quick cause, wow. It’s almost midnight, isn’t it?” Faybelle kisses her forehead, dimly wondering why she’s never been able to kiss Briar on the lips. Every time she’s tried, she’s lost the nerve. 

Like something in her crows, _not yet, it’s not time._

Well, dang. Looks like she won’t get to.

“I love you,” she murmurs softly. “I really do. Don’t let anyone else know what a huge sap I was at the end, okay?”

Briar sobs, “ _Fay, no,_ wait, I love you _too–”_

She closes her eyes, and feels the magic in the core of her body leave, too. If she leaves behind dust, or a body, Faybelle will never know.


	8. I'm so happy you're alive. [briar/faybelle]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> direct sequel to the previous chapter,

“Oh wow, Briar,” someone says as she walks listlessly down the halls, “what party did you come out of? You got glitterbombed _hard!”_

She doesn’t answer them. She just _can’t_. Let them think that she just came back from a party–that’s all she is to the masses, after all, some party hungry girl with no brains and no future for a hundred years–and Grimm. Grimm, Faybelle is _gone_. 

Briar doesn’t remember how she gets to her room, or how she sleeps. When she wakes up in the morning she doesn’t brush her hair, or change her clothes. She has to pick up Spindle; she just can’t let Faybelle’s little Pom-Pomeranian stay at the day care forever. Luckily she’s on Faybelle’s approved list–the only other name on it, she sees–so by noon she has Spindle in her arms and she’s walking back up to her room. 

If the dog can smell his owner on her skin, tangled in her hair, he’s being very understanding. Briar is still shellshocked by it all. 

One minute she was there. The next, Faybelle had vanished, crumbled into sparkling powder that the wind had blown all over her. 

Briar walks into her room again. Sets Spindle on her bed and then sits down. Spindle whines, softly, and wiggles close to her; he licks at her fingers, and Briar looks down. 

Some of the…glitter, Briar doesn’t want to think of it as _ashes_ , has tangled in his long fur. He whines again, little paws batting at her leg. Briar pets over his head, tears welling in her eyes.

“She’s gone.” Briar doesn’t recognize the catch and break of her voice. “How is she gone…I don’t understand why she’s _gone_. This is a bad dream, right?” 

A new low, begging a dog for answers. She pets under his chin and suddenly his eyes light up with magic, and in the split second before he bits her, Spindle’s teeth grow needle-point sharp. Briar jolts as he nips a single finger hard enough to draw blood. 

“O-ow, bad–bad dog! What did I–”

The world spins. Briar’s heart lodges in her throat as blue-black flames crackle from beneath her door, taking shape. Blood dribbles down the side of her finger as the _Dark Fairy_  stands in her room, her expression neutral. 

 _So she found out her daughter died._ Briar stares. _She’s come here for revenge._

“Set your fears aside, little Briar,” is what the Dark Fairy says, taking measured steps forward. A snap of her fingers and Briar is dressed in a long, white nightgown; softer than clouds. “You’ve been due this since you first drew breath. 

“What am I–” Her world spins and suddenly Briar can’t feel her legs. _Oh. What? No. No!_  “–You cursed me,” Briar whimpers. 

“I did,” the Dark Fairy says, her eyes softening. “But only because you were gifted my daughter’s heart. I knew she couldn’t fulfill her destiny–what manner of fairy harms the one who’s lay claim to their heart? We’ve such little to spare, you see, that when we love…we love with an all consuming fury.” 

Briar doesn’t get it. The Dark Fairy lifts her up with magic, rolls down her blankets, and sets her under them. She even tucks Briar in, makes sure the pillows support her neck, and untangles her hair. 

So gentle. Briar’s blood starts to slow in her veins. 

“…Spindle,” Briar says, realizing the ploy in an instant. The dog comes as he’s called, curls against her shoulder and nuzzles her cheek. “Spindle…spinning wheel.” 

“I had to make due,” the Dark Fairy says. “Don’t fret so much, my sweet. My daughter hid much from me, but not the depth of her affections to you; not her longings. You will not sleep the rest of your life away, I promise. Give me nine months, and your love will awaken you.” 

It might as well be a death sentence anyway. Briar’s _love_  died just a few short hours ago, scattering into dust. The Dark Fairy pets her hair, and hums. 

“I breathed the magic into her wings once,” the Dark Fairy says as Briar’s eyes close. “I will simply do so again. Sweetest dreams, little Beauty. And welcome to the Thorn family.”

Maybe the eternal sleep is one where sweet dreams are a guarantee, because Briar has them. She dreams of days at Ever After High, throwing herself off of dragon back to parachute into the trees. She dreams about falling into Wonderland. She dreams about Apple, and Ashlynn. 

She dreams about Faybelle, but only stolen glimpses. A flash of blue magic. The faintest hum of wings. No matter how fast she turns or how hard she stares, Faybelle never comes to her. 

Farrah does, once or twice. And she is quite eloquent, for a dream.

“Magic is very peculiar,” Farrah says. Today her wings are stained glass with constantly shifting images; fairy history, Briar guesses. There is a lot of war, a lot of fighting, a lot of death. “I can talk to you like this because the curse if one of fairy magic…but if Her Majesty ever found out, oh, she’d have my wings.”

Briar squints. She doesn’t take much stock in what she hears in her dreams, anyway. “You have fangs. Faybelle did too.”

Farrah covers her mouth, looking sheepish. “Evolutionary byproduct,” is all she says on that. “Please be careful in your dreams, Briar. If you look too deeply, then you won’t wake up.” 

“What if I don’t want to?” Briar stares at the sky. This dream has chosen a deep, roiling abyss of purple and blue, the colors of fresh bruises. Stars explode into constellations, and the constellations devour each other. “When I wake up, I’ll be a hundred years older, and Faybelle will still be dead. It will still be my fault.” 

Farrah sighs. “Even if you had wanted to follow your destiny in the end, Faybelle still couldn’t curse you. Or wouldn’t do it, anyway. When we love someone, it’s all or it’s nothing. And no one else could fill your void.” Farrah’s voice is gentle as she says, “Faybelle’s magic was made for you, you know? Like mine is made for Ashlynn. I can glamour and grant anyone’s aesthetic wish just fine, with practice, but for Ashlynn it’s like breathing. It’s like home.”

That just makes her feel worse. “Get out. Please.” She turns on her side, covers her ears. “I don’t want to have this dream anymore. I want a different one.” Sobbing, she says, “I want one with _Faybelle in it_ , okay!? Come on, you stupid spell. Just. Work with me here.” 

Farrah pets her hair, and sighs sadly, before the dream moves on. It’s Thronecoming. She burns the book, this time. No destiny to steal or ruin if it’s all ash, right? Right? Faybelle doesn’t have to die because of her, right? Briar watches the fire extinguish itself on ash, and the cinders fly away on the wind. She is still so very trapped, but maybe now the dream will let her see Faybelle. 

It doesn’t. 

Spring Fairest rolls around in her memories-turned-delusions, now. Apple White goes evil, and she holds Raven’s throat in her hands and squeezes. Briar is tired, and the last time she tried to stop Apple she wound up with searing, raw burns on her neck for the trouble. So weird. Like a thorn covered noose.

It’s not real, anyway. Still, Briar summons up the will to stand and tug Apple’s hands away, fighting her inch for inch. 

“You don’t want to do that to Raven!” Apple bites her on the shoulder. “ _Holy hex what the–_ ow! Ow! Come on–w-what’s going, _ow!_ ”

Apple barks. Flat out barks, like a dog. Then she vanishes, and so does Raven, and the chaos of Spring Fairest, too. Briar stands, rubbing her smarting shoulder, and then–

Hands. Against her neck. Cool breath against her face. Briar trembles in the dream. The fingers move over her, as if brushing aside something. Then the pressure vanishes and Briar can hear a voice, so familiar it aches like she’s dying.

_“–stupid–thorny little–did you just bite me you piece of–oh, you wanna go?! You wanna go, tree guy?! Bring it on like fairysong, you splintery sack of–”_

“Fay?” Briar stares into the yawning stretch of nothing. The dream has never been so still and so cold, an empty void of white. “Faybelle?!”

Faybelle doesn’t answer her and Briar wants to scream, so she _does_ , and it feels good. She screams as loud as she can, until her voice goes hoarse. 

“I want to wake up! I want to wake up!” She stomps her foot and nearly throws a Grimmcharmed tantrum. “Or you stupid, stupid dream–bring her _back_ , I know she was here, so bring her back! Please! _Please!_ ”

The hands, again, smoothing against her forehead and her cheeks, cupping her jaw. Briar closes her eyes, leans into the touch as phantasmal as it is, and wishes more than anything in the world that it was _real_. 

“Please wake up,” Faybelle whispers against her ear. 

Her mouth feels cold, and the dream goes black. Someone breathes into her lungs and the curse breaks like a fading nightmare. There might be light; a gold sort of sheen sears, muted, through her closed eyes. The lips leave; Briar lays still, adjusting to the feeling of her being _awake_ , of being back in her body. She wiggles her toes, then her fingers, teeth chattering. The spell keeps her body young, but her mind is still reeling. 

Briar slowly opens her eyes. Faybelle stares back at her, a shallow scratch at her cheek, and Spindle in her hands. The Pom-Pomeranian starts to wiggle and yip, licking his owner’s chin, little paws flailing in the air.  

“Well, I’ll be,” Faybelle says, voice breaking. “I actually woke you up. _That’s_  why I could never get the courage to kiss you.” 

 _Alive._  Briar would contribute this to another dream, but she knows the difference. Her arms shake as she cautiously sits up, tears sliding down her face. 

“Briar?” Faybelle asks softly. “Babe? Are you okay? This is real, I promise, I _promise_ –”

“I’m so happy you’re alive,” Briar husks. Faybelle sets Spindle aside and Briar leaps for her, wraps both arms around her neck and kisses a dream come true.


	9. You came back. (Wonderland Remix) [cerise/kitty]

It takes forever and a day until Alistair wanders into her forest. 

Kitty Cheshire is a patient person by nature. The best pranks are the ones with layers upon layers of set up. The funniest jokes are the ones with punchlines woven into the seamless web of the delivery. The best reactions to a hidden pun is the moment before reaction. It’s the updog and the bofa. 

When graduation day ended, and Kitty had been sucked into the turbulent wind of Wonderland back to the heart of her mother’s forest, she’d been sobbing. The Cheshire Cat had been grinning until she’d seen her daughter, distraught, and she’d been swooped into a hug quickly. 

The hug had…helped. The miss of Cerise is like a hole in the fabric of her heart, her soul. To try and fill it, she’d learned to prowl in fur and fangs. Turning into a cat is different than being invisible, but she likes the additional option. Catnapping in the trees with a much more flexible spine is much more comfortable. 

Her ear flicks as she hears boots crunch on the forest floor. Kitty stirs, eyes sharpening in the gloom.

“–You’re sure you picked up the scent this way?” Alistair. Finally. _Finally._  “See, look at that mark on the tree. We’ve been around here before.”

Did he bring a dog with him? What a silly idea. If a dog could sniff out a way to Lizzie’s castle, then what would be the point of _her_? Kitty snickers, teleporting to the source of his voice, tail curling lazily. 

“That’s a shame,” she purrs, claws flexing. “Little boy, you don’t simply _mark_ a tree without _purr_ mission. They lead you in circles just to get reven…”

She sees red. A red hood. Alistair smiles up at her with a smug expression, eyes sparkling. Cerise stands up, dusting leaves and debris from her jeans, and looks up with soft, warm eyes. 

“Happy birthday, Kitty,” Alistair says. “I figured I’d bring in a _wolf_  to come help in the story. No rules against that, right?”

Kitty gets on all fours, wiggles her haunches, and pounces. She sheds her fur and tail midair and wraps her arms around Cerise’s neck with a little wail of delight, tackling her to the ground. Cerise laughs the whole way down, and Alistair backs up a little, hands in his pockets. 

“Need a minute?” Alistair takes the hint at a teary sounding _mew_  that rolls out of her mouth. “Which way to the castle, then? Just so I can get our your, uh, fur. Give you guys some alone time.”

Kitty waves a hand, and the trees rolls and rumble in the dirt and open a path for him to take. Lizzie’s castle sits on the horizon. Alistair gives his thanks and sets off at a jog, wishing them the best.

“You came back,” Kitty whimpers. She rubs her cheek against Cerise’s neck, her face, clutching at her. “Oh, _you came back!”  
_

“I never even left–” Cerise holds her tight, nearly crushing. 

“I mean, in here,” Kitty shifts to sit in her lap, bringing Cerise’s hand up to rest against her heart. Her whole body shudders at the contact, eyes squinting closed in happy bliss. It feels like coming _home_ , the way that it hadn’t when she’d been returned to Wonderland. “You came back _here_.“

Cerise’s eyes glitter golden, beautiful and strange. For as temporary as it is, she fits just right in Wonderland.


	10. You're in love with her. (SwanLake remix) [duchess/poppy]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> back at it again w/the prompts i guess. also platonic fay+duchess is my lifeblood

“What do you mean you can’t come,” Faybelle asked, her sharp brows arching up to kiss her hairline. “You’ve never turned me down for tossing popcorn at gross kissy couples at the movies before.” 

Duchess didn’t even pause as she touched up her foundation, made the wings of her eyeliner crisp enough to cut glass. “Are you jealous, Fay?”

“Not really.” That was true enough; Faybelle made it known to anyone who’d been unfortunate enough to inspire envy. “Just curious. Is meeting up with the Wonder Twins so important?”

“It’s just Poppy,” Duchess scoffed, dabbing a fresh glossy coat of pink over her lips. She smoothed it out with a tissue, careful to wipe away any excess. “She wants to take me out shopping for a few things. She needs new equipment for her scissors.” 

Faybelle shifted on the bed behind her. Duchess couldn’t read her expression, but she recognized a vague amusement, which irked her for some reason. Not everyone was magic, and Poppy took so much pride in taking care of her things. She’d spend hours honing every blade she owned to make sure it gave the best cut; _my customers deserve the best_ , Poppy had told her. 

“And I need new…ribbons,” Duchess said after a moment. “For my shoes.”  
  
Faybelle looked to the shelf where Duchess placed all of her dancing shoes. No ribbons needed replacing. “Right,” the fairy drawled. “She gonna take you to lunch, too?”

“It’s my turn to treat.” Duchess fixed her hair, running a critical eye over the way it fell, running through memories in her head. Poppy always had a compliment in store for her hair, but she’d noticed a recurring trend of appreciative glances whenever she kept her hair down. Duchess decided to do just that, pinning in a string of pearls around the crown of her head. 

“Hmmm, I see.” Faybelle’s lips kept twitching, and her sharp teeth gnawed at her bottom lip. Duchess studiously ignored any hint of being laughed at, something she’d practiced since childhood. “What’s on the menu? Maybe some _rampion_? Lettuce, maybe?” 

“No, I was thinking about that new cafe that opened in Book End. I’ve heard decent things about its hazelnut soup.” Duchess squeezed a dollop of flower scented lotion on her palms and paused as she registered what Faybelle had insinuated. She gave the future Dark Fairy the most calmly disgusted face in the mirror as Faybelle burst into laughter. “Godmother, Briar needs to wash that naughty mouth of yours out with soap one of these days.” 

“Oh, don’t give me ideas,” Faybelle purred. “I suppose if you’re going to go have a date, I should too.”

“It’s not a romantic liaison, you boob,” Duchess scoffed immediately, ducking her head to hide the heat rushing to her cheeks at the thought. She rubbed the lotion on her arms, worked it into her hands. “Just a little friendly outing.”   
  
“Oh, it’s an outing alright,” Faybelle teased, laying back on Duchess’s bed and grossing her legs at the ankle. “Are you seriously trying to gal-pal this, D? C’mon. It’s _me_.”

“It’s not a date! I have nothing but platonic feelings. I enjoy her company and her humor is…decent.” Duchess stood, and started to fix the laces of her sundress. “She’s astoundingly good at conversation and what better way to farm for gossip than by talking to a hairdresser? Everyone talks to their hairdresser.” 

“Uh-huh,” Faybelle said, face slowly losing its teasing edge. 

“No one ever takes little miss O’Hair seriously because she doesn’t have a destiny and that’s such a shame,” Duchess continued, voice sharper than she intended, “because she’s _wonderful_  and actually quite vicious if you make a misstep. We ran into old schoolmates once–well, schoolmates of mine, she was towerschooled–and they made a crack about when I couldn’t control my shifting. And she was so _furious_  that she told me to hold her purse and she punched that awful little worm right in his smug little face! For me! And then we had to run from the police–”

“Duchess.”

“–but that was _fun too_ , she held my hand and we just _ran_ , we ran and we hid in Ashlynn’s boutique and she told me I should try out for the track team and then we went out for ice cream and–”

“Duchess,” Faybelle tried again, now sitting up. 

“–she still wants to learn how to ice skate and she always asks me to help! And I think that’s…the most admirable thing about her, that O’Hair, how she’s always willing to ask for help and offer her own in return. Selfless girl. Silly girl.” Duchess’s heart seized. “If…If anyone ever, _ever_  tried to take advantage of that, why, I’d–!”

“Duchess!” Faybelle stood, propping her hands on her hips. “Would you calm down and turn a few pages back? Go over what you just said?” 

Duchess stared. It was hard to replay her words, honestly. She’d been speaking from her heart and rambling, trying to prove–how good friends they were! How good a friend Poppy was. It had gotten a little heated, of course, but that wasn’t anything to really be concerned about. Was there? 

“I…” Duchess held a hand over her racing heart, breathless. “I’m…sorry, Fay, I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do. And, _Godmother_.” Faybelle took her shoulders firmly. “You’re _in love with her_.” 

“I–what, that’s an awfully presumptuous–who even–I-I–!” Duchess looked down at herself, and sputtered. “ _Oh, wow.”_

 _“_ Yeah, wow,” Faybelle said gently. “Been where you are, cupcake. Now that we’re clear on that front, sit your butt back down. If we’re gonna get you a girlfriend, your eyeliner needs work.” 


	11. Looks like we'll be trapped here a while. [kitty/cerise]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [its always sunny jingle] The Gang Goes To Jail

 

On paper, it had seemed like a great idea. 

With everyone of legal drinking age--except for Justine Dancer, who had graciously offered her services, her bus license, and a rental re-purposed school bus--and in the twilight haze between graduating college and the rest of their lives, the idea of a class “field trip” had been raised. A cross country one, in fact. What better way to celebrate surviving the first trek of university than to road trip to the party hardy city of New Loire for its annual three day long festival? 

(The name of it escaped Cerise; it was in a different language from Ever After, and the pronunciation seemed to roll and tumble its way in one ear and out the other. Or maybe that was the hangover setting in early.)

Justine, working with Duchess Swan, Apple White, and Raven Queen, had managed to gather up as much of the ‘old guard’ as they could; the Wonderlandians, the O’Hairs, two out of three Charmings--Daring was indisposed due to his fledgling professional bookball career--the Beauties, Cedar, Faybelle, and Cerise with her sister.

(That really should have been her first warning. Everyone was dragging their gay disasters with them.) 

The trip wasn’t as much of a nightmare as Cerise had feared. It was, in fact, pretty fun; everyone who could drove in shifts, they all split costs on gas, and Apple and Briar’s combined political pull ensured that they were never without a hotel to spend the night, for free or otherwise. They’d even managed to secure a week’s stay for the festival, albeit a cramped stay. 

(It really wasn’t all that bad. The couches could fold out into sleeping arrangements, each bed could fit two, and Cerise had no problems sleeping on the floor when necessary. That should have been her second clue; nothing that ever went so well without a disastrous consequence immediately after.)

The festival started two days after they’d had a chance to settle in and explore; floats cruised down the street, framed by thick crowds of locals and tourists alike. They tosses beads and decorative coins, even stuffed animals, candy, and small fruits like satsumas or apples. During the day, that was fine for Cerise; the crowds were loud, but the floats were works of art--depicting mythological figures, gods and goddesses, even entire pieces of music and singers--and the atmosphere was one of delight. 

But it was the second day when things grew dire. The parade hadn’t started until late afternoon, so Cerise found herself tagging along into a bar. 

And after a round of shots and ridiculously huge glasses that were allowed to be taken out, into another. And then another. 

(Cerise remembered very little, except that she’d woken up in the hotel room with the foul taste of whiskey on the back of her tongue and Kitty Cheshire curled around her, one hand gently stroking the soft fur of Cerise’s ear, and whimpering fitfully into the other. That was really nice. She hadn’t been able to spend a lot of time with her girlfriend lately, so it was a balm on the lonely scrape in her heart Cerise had never noticed.)

Which led to tonight. Another parade, this time at night, and the alcohol had been in no short supply. The music had sucked them in, the crowds chanting as if they attended a pagan worship, the smell of lilac thick in her nose...

Cerise fought through the heavy pounding of her head. She remembered Faybelle wheeling out a keg, shouting about how she’d found someone who sold ‘fairy ale’. She remembered Ramona seizing Rosabella and Justine’s arms, and had looked at her with a warning shake of her head. 

Cerise hadn’t listened; and the ale was so fruity and sweet and pleasant, hardly ale at all, she couldn’t help how fast she downed her first class...which led to her fifth...

She still wasn’t  sure where Faybelle kept getting the kegs from. Had there been more than one? Or maybe it’d just been magically enchanted to keep filling. Poppy’d done a kegstand at one point. No, Cerise corrected herself, that had been  _Holly_. Cedar had been cheering her on, drunk entirely on the atmosphere alone. 

Poppy had been the one to crack open a can of Red Bull, an entire bottle of  Jägermeister, and had shouted,  _I face God and walk backwards into Hell!_  before slamming back both at once. Duchess, on her fifteenth Jello shot, had slurred,  _Walk forwards though so I can look at your ass._

Cerise didn’t want to think about what Raven and Apple had done. Her mind supplied a vague recollection of a pale butt cheek and the thought,  _I’ve seen too much and Raven’s Mom is going to eviscerate me_. 

Everyone else had descended into much the same brand of chaos. Briar had learned of the myth that flashing the parades earned you more beads, which had to be some kind of weird status symbol or something in New Loire. Literally everyone else had followed suit. She was pretty sure Alistair was still missing his jacket, pants, and shirt, but the police had confiscated three sacks of multicolored beads from him before letting them stew in their regrets in holding, so that had to say something. 

“This sucks,” someone--Darling--moaned, covering her face with both hands. “I can’t feel my face and this sucks.”

“I can’t believe he got more beads than me,” Briar complained, splayed out in Faybelle’s lap. “What the fuck. My tits are better than his tits!” 

“Your tits are so much better than his tits,” Faybelle agreed, patting Briar on the butt. 

“They so are! I don’t understand! He had hundo’s in his boxers, Fay. Hundos!!!”

“That’ll go to bail,” said Faybelle soothingly. 

“Hey,” Alistair said, peeling open swollen eyes, “I lapdanced for that money fair and square.”

“And we’re all basically your pimps at this point, so we get a cut.”

“Can we stop talking,” Holly pleaded as Poppy continued to heave into a bucket that had been provided. Duchess held back her hair--grown to mid back over the week, to try something new--and complained about it the entire time, under her breath. “Your words are bouncing in my skull and beating the absolute stuffing out of my brain.” 

“Off with your head,” Lizzie slurred from her position, face first, on the ground. Maddie ‘woo’d, and reached for her hat--which had been confiscated--to pull out a celebratory cup of tea. Clearly it was not to be, which had Maddie ‘woo’ing again, with a slightly sadder note. 

Kitty was uncharacteristically quiet, but that was to be expected. Neither she nor Cerise had gotten  _quite_  as trashed as their companions, but they were still unwell and feeling the after effects starting to sink in. Her skin was pale, and sweaty, and she smelled like cigarette smoke and stale beer and the musky sweat of cramped crowds. But, Cerise realized, taking another quick sniff from the crown of her head, she smelled like fun, like chaos, like lilacs.

“You smell nice,” she murmured, giving Kitty a little kiss. She felt a rhythmic rumble against her side and smiled, draping an arm over Kitty’s shoulders to tug the purring prankster closer still.

Raven and Apple were escorted back into holding a moment later, their expressions drawn and eyes haunted. 

“What’s the damage?” Cedar asked as she lead Holly’s head to her lap, carefully stroking back the wisps of hair that had escaped Holly’s enormous braid. 

“Well,” Raven sighed, “we called Ramona and our moms to ask for help and bail. We’ve got the money for sure, it’s wired to Ramona’s card, but...”

Cerise felt an eye twitch. “But?”

“But Ramona said, and I quote her directly,” Apple began gingerly, “ ‘You all need to learn how to handle your liquor, your bad decisions, and the consequences there of’. So she’s taking her girlfriends for a date and making us spend the night as punishment.” 

“That  _useless ass lesbian_ , I’ll kill her!” vowed Poppy in a hoarse voice before she ducked her face back into the bucket. 

“Another bucket, please,” Duchess called out with a pinch of distress. “It’s starting to overflow--oh no, oh  _NO_ , ohhhh, baby--” 

Maybe it was a twin thing, or the results of a keg stand-thing, but Holly seized up and her face went paper white. Cerise wrenched her head around and squeezed her eyes shut as the unfortunate splash and Cedar’s wail of,  _It’s in my shoes!_  confirmed that this was going to be a night of hell.

“Looks like we’ll be trapped here a while,” Kitty whined as she scrambled into Cerise’s lap, her purring taking on an edge of panic as Lizzie shrieked bloody murder. 


	12. I could give you a massage? [duchess/poppy]

Shoulders back. Chin held high. Keep your steps evenly spaced and walk like you’re plotting murder. Ignore the strange weight on your shoulders, the stares; the pain zinging up and down your spine. 

Duchess Swan kept the mantra in her head from the moment she woke up, and carried it into her dreams. It was a necessary tactic for survival, and though a small, vulnerable part of her curled up and sobbed for rest. It sounded the same as Duchess had been when she was far, far younger, her body shifting against her will; swan’s legs to hobble in on, feathers scattered among her sheets...

That would make sense, since a week ago she’d woken up with a pair of swan’s wings sprouting from her back. Muscles and bones shifting where they didn’t belong; unnatural weight she had to get used to once it was clear that willing them away wasn’t happening any time soon. At least all of her dresses were open back.

This was magic. Reversion. Perhaps it had something to do with Raven Queen and that  _fucking_ book. 

Whatever it was, it garnered Duchess attention and while not all of it was the vicious mockery and teasing from her younger years, none of it was what she wanted. She felt like a freak all over again, and the pain wasn’t helping that feeling either. There was no way to sleep without crushing one or the other, and while she control over how they moved, she kept them pinned, flat, against her back; Duchess could feel the bone-deep ache, the cramps, the knots of tension racketing her own ever higher. 

She had no one to turn to for advice. The staff claimed that it was natural for wings to grow for her, since she shifted to readily. Faybelle had offered council in how to fly, but Duchess had shot the idea down and stormed off. Add an offended best friend, she thought darkly. 

Advice, eventually, found its way to her. Cupid, of all people, wandered over to her table during lunch. 

“Talk to Poppy,” Cupid had hedged. “While you’re getting your hair done; she’s got an idea or two of how to get the aches out of those wings.” 

“What?” Duchess’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

“Oh, you know. Just a hunch! She’s not as much of a bookworm as her sister, but Poppy’s pretty smart.” One of Cupid’s smaller wings flexed, the plumage golden. “And before I got used to them, my wings always gave me trouble too.” 

Duchess bit back a caustic remark, and simply grunted. “...Fine. I’ll ask O’Hair. I have an appointment this afternoon anyway.” 

“Great! Good luck,” Cupid sing-songed.

By the afternoon the slow and steady throb of agony was a near constant, and once Duchess was in Poppy’s salon she allowed herself a sigh and tried, however in vain, to relax. She’d booked the last slot of the day for a reason, and Poppy tended to keep the salon quite private when she could. 

Speak of the devil, Duchess thought as Poppy swung out from the back. She braced herself for awkward questions or looks, but to O’Hair’s credit she maintained that professional barber’s grin. 

“Hey, good to see you,” Poppy said, and she almost sounded genuine. “You want the usual today, Duchess?” 

She slanted her eyes to the highbacked chair and couldn’t help but wince at the thought of sitting so tortuously still for over an hour as Poppy retouched the lavender highlights, followed by a trim. 

“I actually...Cupid said you knew...” Duchess crossed her arms and balled her fingers into fists to keep from wringing her hands. “How to deal with wing...pain,” she finished lamely. 

“Oh? Oh,” Poppy’s eyes widened, mask slipping into something far more personal. She propped one hand on her hip, the other drifting to her chin. “Hm, yeah, I...well, I mean, I know a few tricks for that.” 

Something ugly and bright pecked her heart then. Duchess swallowed back bile. She bit out her next question in a far more waspish tone than usual, “Which are?”

“Do you…well…I mean…,” Poppy’s face blossomed with pink, and she averted her eyes with a nervous clearing of her throat. “I could give you a massage?” 

“A...?” Unbidden, a flush rose on Duchess’s cheeks as well, followed by a tension that racketed up to twist through her wings and shoulders. She couldn’t stifle the wince that bared her teeth, or the soft hiss that escaped, and she saw Poppy’s face fall at the sound. 

She did not look at Duchess with pity, though. Only a sort of stern resolution that made the stinging beast in her chest relent. 

“Fine,” Duchess said after a moment. “If only because anything  _you_  do can’t possibly be worse than what I’ve had to deal with. 

Poppy scowled with fond annoyance, and gestured. “There’s a backroom in the salon; lay down on your front, and I’ll be in right after.” 

Duchess did as she was told, gingerly setting upon a lowset table just as she heard Poppy call out, “Oh, and undress to your comfort level!” 

She squawked in surprise. “ _Excuse_ me?!” 

“Just sayin’ that it’ll be easier to get to the knots if I don’t have to work around clothes, dummy!” Poppy replied. “Relax!” 

How could she relax?! Duchess scowled and sputtered and conceded only in unclasping the stiff outer layer she wore over the softer, lavender silk. Stretching her arms to unclasp it all made her wings ache in protest and by the time she had managed to lie down on the table she felt a cold film of sweat gathered in between her shoulders. 

She heard Poppy’s heels as she came into the room, and the lights dimmed marginally. Scented candles were lit--pleasant, neutral vanilla. Her favorite. 

“Do you want music or no?” Poppy’s voice was incredibly gentle and soft. 

“I...don’t know,” Duchess managed, resting her chin on her crossed arms. “We’ll see?”

“Okay. Just lemme know if you need anything.” She heard the rattle of metal, and looked up as Poppy pushed a cart into her view. She saw a handful of lotions, oils, and a large selection of brushes. “Everything look okay to you?” 

Duchess looked over them again, eyes narrowed in thought. “Vanilla scented stuff only,” she said finally. “If that’s okay?” 

Poppy reached over, plucked away three of the lotion bottles, and set them aside. “Gotcha. The oils are scentless. You okay with the brushes? The bristles are a little harder.” 

“What for?” 

“Your wings, after I get them all unstuck.” Poppy’s voice was warm, and combined with the closed atmosphere, the dim lighting, it made Duchess a little dizzy. “Are you okay with me touching you?”

She wanted to say something smart, or cruel, but found a breathless  _yes_  peeling from her lips instead. She buried her face in her arms and tried to breathe as she heard Poppy toss off her vest and scarf, rolling up her sleeves. A second passed, before Poppy warned her, “I’m going to touch the right wing now,” before Duchess felt the tips of her fingers against the unnatural base of one wing. She shuddered at the alien feel and the notes of pain that followed--

And then.  _Bliss_. 

Poppy’s fingers rolled careful, gentle circles as she moved up the tight and unyielding muscle of her wing. It took ten minutes of her going up, and down, and up the curve on repeat until it finally unfurled for her, stretching to an impressive span. 

“Gorgeous,” Duchess heard Poppy breathe. 

She worked the wing up and down in a mimicry of flight, and Duchess allowed it. The muscles screamed at first, but then seemed to melt under Poppy’s patient and careful guidance. Duchess found it easier to breathe as Poppy let the wing droop back down. A soft humming finally reached her ears, a seven note melody without words that made something in her melt; Duchess was so pliant that the feeling of stiff bristles against the back of her wing made her jump a little, a soft gasp leaving her. 

“Sorry!” Poppy pulled back. “Did that hurt?”

“N-no--no, no. You’re fine. More than fine, it--” Duchess flushed harder. “You may continue. It’s fine. Just took me by surprise.” 

“Right...okay. Right.” 

The bristles combed down her wing again, in broad strokes over and over. Then the tips of Poppy’s fingers sifted through the feathers in probing passes, rolling and pinching every now and then. This was followed by another round of brushing, and then the fingers again...

Duchess gnawed hard at her bottom lip by the time Poppy was seemingly satisfied with her wings. She watched as Poppy moved back for the cart, picking up a bottle of oil, the humming picking back up to her secret delight. 

“What’s...” Duchess swallowed hard. “What’s the oil for?”

“I did a little research; waterfowl have a kind of oil on their feathers to make them waterproof. That, and it’s to keep your feathers nice and shiny. I know I said it before, but you’ve got  _stunning_  wings, Duchess.” 

A huff. “Well, of course,” she managed. “But they’re not usually...so out in the open against my permission.”

“Well, you might as well keep them in good shape while they’re out, right?” 

“I suppose.”

The process with the left wing was much the same; Poppy’s steady hands coaxing it to spread, soothing the muscles, brushing and preening and oiling on repeat. They made small talk here and there, mostly nonsense; whenever a comfortable silence seemed to bloom between them, Poppy would start her humming again. By the time it was over, Duchess felt like she could have been poured into a glass and tossed out into the river and wouldn’t give a care in the world. 

Dimly she registered the sounds of Poppy washing her hands of the oil, and then cracking open a bottle of lotion. And then those strong, warm palms were pressing in the center of her back, compressing against stress-tight muscles, and the relief was so instantaneous and unexpected that Duchess couldn’t help the noise that escaped her. A moan that burst out of her chest, through her throat; not a honk to be found. 

“ _Ohhh my god,_ ” she groaned, eyes squeezed shut. 

The beat of silence that followed was tense, and Duchess wanted to die on the spot--the curse could take her, she’d be fine with that, she could stop existing any minute now, whatever--but Poppy just whispered, “ _Hot_ ,” under her breath and started to massage in earnest. And, well. It’d been a long week. A long month. 

A long couple of years, maybe. 

 _No wonder Cupid recommended this_ , she thought to herself, and then suddenly jealousy was boiling her blood. The ease with which Poppy worked; the tools she had at her disposal. The blase way she continued to work through despite Duchess’s embarrassing outburst. ‘Undress to your comfort level’ echoed in her head on repeat and the fury that followed that made Duchess want to scream, but she settled with an angry flap of her wings. 

“Stop--” she grated, and Poppy leaped back as if burnt. “That’s enough.”

“I’m--I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“Oh, no,” Duchess hissed, snatching her layer from the counter and shrugging it back on while shaking hands redid the latches. “I just don’t want to hog all your time. Your favorite customer should be coming in any minute now.”

“I don’t have a--”

“I bet it’s been a real pain for you, having to work with these giant stupid things instead of those precious, heart shaped little wings that can’t even hold her weight without magic--”

“Duchess,” Poppy tried, her brows furrowed. 

“--but I won’t stand in the way! Heavens no!” Duchess let every sarcastic drop of venom pour over her voice, lashing out because for a second--

For a second, it had been so,  _so_  easy to pretend that this wasn’t something she had to pay for. That if--if the wings had to remain forever, that she could have someone to take them in hand, treat her with a little kindness and care because they wanted to. Because she was hurt, and they could fix it, and they would do so and Duchess would  _let them_  and be bare and open because it felt nice. 

“Wow, okay! Reel it back!” Poppy snapped. “What the hell are you going on about?! I didn’t think wing care was so ffff--” She visibly reeled back in an oath or two, nostrils flared with her anger. Duchess hated that she found it so endearing. “I didn’t know it set you off! Jeez, next time I’ll just not listen to Cupid!” 

“I--” Duchess did a doubletake. “What?”

“Yeah! Stupid me, right?! Cupid comes up to me yesterday, tells me that it’d probably be best to look up wing care,” Poppy began in an angry rush, “because she noticed you were having trouble with your new wings and she’s a pro about it! So I stay up all night watching stupid videos on preening and looking up anything I can on the Mirrornet just to help  _your_  ungrateful butt and now you’re acting like I--like I cheated on you! What the hell?!” 

“I thought--I thought--you--and Cupid--”

“Me and Cupid  _what?!_ ”

 _“_ I thought you did this for her!” Duchess finally burst out, flushing, “All the time!”

“What?! No! I--I wanted to do this for  _you!_ You're the only one I've ever done this for! You _dumbass!_ ” 

And Duchess took a moment to  _look_ ; Poppy O’Hair and her flushed face, hands shiny with lotion and oil, her chest heaving a bit from her (well justified, something in her whispered) anger, and then Duchess decided to stop looking. She grabbed Poppy’s face in her trembling hands and pulled her close, her wings folding around them for privacy, and kissed her as hard as she dared. When those slick hands tangled in her hair to keep her, Duchess didn't mind it a bit. 


End file.
